A Sherlockian Christmas
by cjnwriter
Summary: I am happy to announce that I am participating in HadesLordoftheDead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness this year! Expect a LOT of fluff, crack-fic, randomness, and the like. :P Expect nothing of extraordinary quality, but I will do my best to prevent spelling, grammar, etc. errors.
1. December 1

_**Disclaimer: I do not own (most of) the characters, places, or events in these stories. **_

_**I do, however, own the orange kitten.**_

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**December 1: "Watson wants to learn an instrument." (from embracetheweird)**

**A/N: Well, it might not be entirely voluntary on his part, but here goes!**

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"Here, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes from his seat at the table as a bleary-eyed Watson sat down to his breakfast one morning.

"Mmph?" asked Watson sleepily, pouring himself some coffee.

"Look at this," Holmes said,holding up a hollow wooden cylinder with several holes in it.

"What is it?" asked Watson, after glancing at it and going back to stirring sugar into his coffee.

"It is called a nose-flute," replied Holmes matter-of-factly.

"A nose-flute?" Watson looked across the table at Holmes, his brow furrowed. "I have never heard of such a thing."

"Nor had I, until I took up that case given to me by Lestrade yesterday," he replied. "But it is a crucial point in the case. This," he held up the instrument, "was certainly left behind by the person or persons who killed Mr. James Anderson." Watson nodded; his mouth was too full of Mrs. Hudson's excellent cooking to speak.

"I would like you to try to play it," Holmes continued. Watson looked up from his breakfast, and gave the detective an "is this really necessary" look.

"Yes, my dear fellow, it is quite necessary," he said, answering his friend's thoughts, as he often did. Holmes held the nose-flute out to him and Watson took it.

"How am I supposed to play this?" he asked. Holmes stood up, walked around the table, and explained to Watson how to play it. As Watson put his nostril over the hole on the left side, he glanced at Holmes with a "I probably look ridiculous right now," expression on his face. Holmes only gave him one of his quick half-smiles. With a resigned air, Watson blew into the hole with his nose. Nothing happened.

"Try putting your nose directly on the wood, and hold your other nostril closed with your hand." Watson gave him a doubtful look.

"I'm not sure if that's very sanitary, Holmes. You said this was found at a crime scene?"

"You will be perfectly fine, Watson. Now will you please..." Watson did as Holmes directed. Still nothing happened. Watson glanced at his friend a moment before Holmes could hide his satisfied smile. Watson sighed, and handed the nose-flute back Holmes, giving him a half exasperated and half amused look.

"You knew I wouldn't be able to do it, didn't you?"

"I strongly suspected it, but I did not know for certain until a few moments ago," Holmes replied, and seated himself back at the table as Watson turned his attention to the now-slightly-less-warm breakfast sitting before him. "If I had been sure that you could not do it, I would not have asked you to attempt it."

"So, what exactly have we gained from this?" asked Watson after swallowing.

"We know that the man who killed Mr. Anderson must have very strong lungs, and as he is a very active man—I deduced as much from the investigation—he would have been able to swim the river and so escape into the woods as the alarm was being raised by the servants downstairs." Holmes brandished the nose-flute like a conductor's baton as he spoke, and now put it in his waistcoat pocket.

Watson nodded. "Seems plausible."

"Not only is it plausible, it is the only possible solution!" Holmes leapt out of his seat at the table. "I had better inform Inspector Lestrade," he said taking his jacket off the top of a chair and putting it on. "I don't want him arresting the wrong person." He picked up his hat from on top of a dangerously leaning stack of papers and dusted it off before putting it on his head as he walked toward the stairs.

"Holmes," said Watson suddenly. Holmes turned on his heel to face him, giving him an inquisitive look.

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"Can you play it?" Holmes gave his friend a slightly smug smile as he pulled the nose-flute out of his pocket. Putting it to his nose, he played a rapid, but simple tune, and then turned again toward the stairs.

Watson heard him descend the seventeen stairs two at a time, and cringed as he heard the door slam with more force than was necessary. Shaking his head, he finished his breakfast.

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**A/N: I laughed so hard writing this! The nose-flute was my mum's idea, and the rest just sort of popped into my head. I hope you enjoyed!**


	2. December 2

**December 2: "Holmes shops for a gift for Watson." (from ImaLateBloomer)**

**This one's quite a bit shorter than yesterday's.**

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Sherlock Holmes looked extremely out of place and uncomfortable, surrounded by all of the cheerful shoppers. He hadn't gone Christmas shopping in a very long time, and had almost forgotten how much he hated it.

Almost.

He narrowly avoided being knocked over by an enthusiastic youngster, who was being chased by his mother down the narrow space between two racks of clothes. Yes, he definitely hated this. But he had felt really bad the previous year, having completely forgotten about getting Watson a present. Watson had seemed a little surprised, and (though he didn't show it) disappointed at this, but he had still given Holmes an excellent magnifying glass he had had his eye on for a while. That had been their first Christmas living in their flat at 221b, and so this would be their second.

Holmes glanced around the shop. How was he supposed to buy a gift for a man who seemed perfectly happy with what he had, and had given him no clues as to what he wanted?

A shelf of new-looking books caught his eye. Ah! Watson liked reading, and since his leg didn't allow him to go out much during the winter, it would be nice for him to have some new reading material. Holmes crossed over to it, and flipped through the books. _Romantic drivel, psychology, romantic drivel, romantic drivel, poetry, romantic drivel..._ He stopped at a collection of Shakespeare's plays. As far as he knew, Watson didn't have a book of Shakespeare, though he did enjoy them. Not to mention that Holmes could stand Shakespeare as well.

He picked up the book walked over to the counter to pay for it, feeling very... _good_ for the first time that week.

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**A/N: Aww... Holmes is buying a book for his Watson. I hope he likes it!**


	3. December 3

**December 3: "Mycroft does his Christmas shopping." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

**A/N: Hmm...**

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Mycroft Holmes looked strange indeed, as he pushed his way through the crowd of eager shoppers and their hyperactive children. He was able to carve out a path through the tightly packed crowd, with the help of his height and girth, of course. Christmas shopping was definitely _not_ a part of his normal schedule, but as important as his routine was to him, it was not as important as getting the good Dr. Watson and his wife a present. It was their first Christmas together, after all.

And he was going to get something for Sherlock while he was here.

_But what to get_, he mused, as he pushed past a couple of giggling young women who were shooting furtive glances at a handsome young man who had his back to them. Mycroft wasn't sure who was harder to find a gift for, his brother or Watson. Both were perfectly happy with what they had, and didn't seem to need or want anything else.

He winced as the fourth person in as many minutes stepped on his left foot. _Why the deuce is it always the same foot?!_ he wondered. He had two, so wasn't it far more likely that they would have each been trodden on twice instead of one of them four times? _Perhaps my left foot sticks out more_, he thought, and looked down to check. Unfortunately, this did little good, as he could not see his feet.

Sighing, he glanced at his pocket watch. This shopping was cutting into his dinner time.

Most inconvenient.

He made a split second decision. _Well, I'll just get them each a card._

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**A/N: *Rolls on the floor laughing hysterically* Well, he tried! I'm not sure where the young ladies or the foot-stepping part came from, but part of it is probably that I wrote it at about 11:00 last night. Definitely explains a lot.**

**I think I had a little too much fun picking on Mycroft. It was REALLY fun though! xD**


	4. December 4

**December 4: "A secret bouquet of flowers." (from Spockologist)**

**A/N: Okay, I'm posting this early because I don't know when I'll have a chance to tomorrow, and I have it written and can't wait to share it with you guys!**

**Takes place in December of 1886.**

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_Knock, knock, knock._

"MRS. HUDSON, PLEASE ANSWER THE DOOR!" Watson winced as Sherlock Holmes bellowed at the top of his voice to their long-suffering landlady.

A faint, but quite distinct, "Answer it yourself! I'm making lunch!" floated up to them from the kitchen. Holmes, who was buried in newspapers and smoking his fifth pipe of the morning, glanced pleadingly at his friend, who sighed and put down the novel he had been reading.

_It didn't sound like a client,_ Watson thought to himself as he walked toward the stairs leading to the front door and began to descend. _Clients normally knock more rapidly than this person had. Of course, it could be one of the Scotland Yard officials; they tended to be more composed than the average distraught client._

He opened the door, and was surprised to see a very attractive young lady on the other side. Watson soon got over his shock, however, as they had female clients fairly often, and invited her in out of the chilly winter air.

"No, I am just supposed to deliver something for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said. "Are you...?"

"No, I am Dr. Watson, but Mr. Holmes lives here, Miss...?"

"Cameron."

"Miss Cameron, whatever it is that you wish to deliver, I can bring it to Holmes," said Watson. "He is just upstairs." Miss Cameron smiled and handed Watson a large-ish brown paper sack. He took it, she turned to leave, but Watson stopped her.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in?" She smiled at him.

"No, thank you." She turned away again, but looked back at the last second with curiosity clearly written on her features.

"Are you the Dr. Watson who wrote_ A Study in Scarlet_?" she asked. Watson smiled.

"Yes, I am."

"Oh, well I enjoyed it very much. You should write another one sometime." She smiled at him again, and Watson was relieved that she had turned her back before he blushed.

After closing the door behind him, Watson returned to the sitting room where Holmes was continuing to peruse the papers and do his impression of a human chimney.

"It wasn't a client then?" he said, looking up.

"No," Watson replied.

"I thought not," he said, returning to his newspapers.

"You deduced it?" Watson asked.

"Yes."

Watson decided to take a chance. "From the way that the knock was less urgent than is usual with a distraught client?" Holmes looked up from his paper, and smiled approvingly at his friend.

"Naturally!" he exclaimed. "I am impressed with you Watson. Your deduction skills are improving daily. Now, if it wasn't a client, then who was it and what did he want?"

"She," Watson corrected. "A Miss Cameron, with this bag for you." Watson handed it to him before sitting back down in his chair and returning to his novel.

Watson had just found his place on the page, and was getting into the plot again when a gasp startled him out of his book. He looked up at Holmes, who had jumped out of his chair, and let the paper bag fall to the floor. The sole contents of the bag, it seemed, were a lovely bouquet of flowers (all of which were varying shades of red and pink), with a matching ribbon tied around them and a pink tag attached.

Holmes looked completely ridiculous, with his eyes wide and his mouth open in a comical gape. He was holding the flowers only a few inches away his face, as if to assure himself that they were not a hallucination, and looking as horrified as if it had been something vile and revolting he was holding.

Watson made a valiant effort, but couldn't help laughing a little at the detective standing before him. Holmes had not yet realized that Watson had seen him, but he tore his grey eyes away from the flowers when he heard Watson's muffled (and _very_ ungentlemanly) sniggers, and his sallow face assumed a deeper shade of red than Watson had ever thought possible.

"Have a lady friend, do you?" Watson teased, and felt justified in doing so. Holmes had picked on him about women enough times by now that Watson felt it was _his_ turn, and seized the rare opportunity with vigor.

Holmes blustered for a moment, and his face turned an even deeper shade of red and he said, "No!" in an alarmed tone, but a little too quickly to not arouse Watson's suspicions. The doctor set his book aside, and walked the two paces between his chair and where his friend stood.

Watson picked up the small tag attached to the ribbon, and read the words written with red ink and a very obviously feminine hand: _Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Have a Merry Christmas. Signed, Your Secret Admirer._ Watson again had to fight back the urge to laugh at his mortified friend's expense, and Holmes did a wonderful impression of a goldfish, and seemed not to notice that his pipe had gone out and he was now dumping the remains of his tobacco onto Mrs. Hudson's carpet.

"Well, it's not a lady _friend_ then," said Watson, as he returned to his seat. "You've got a secret admirer, Holmes. It's not every day you get one of those."

Holmes still seemed incapable of speech, so mercilessly, Watson went on.

"I certainly don't have any secret admirers, although it would be rather nice," he added a little wistfully. "I'm sure there are a great many men our age who would _love_ to trade places with you, my friend."

The humiliated detective opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out (in a strangled choke, very unlike his usually masterful voice) was, "I—I don't..."

By this point, Watson's kind heart was slowly overcoming his desire for revenge, and he decided to leave his poor friend alone.

Shaking his head and still chortling under his breath, Watson returned to his novel, in a much better mood than he had been all morning. He never did discover the identify of his friend's so-called 'secret admirer'.

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**A/N: Ooh! Did I just imply that Holmes DID know who it was?! ****_Scandalous!_**

**Okay, I thought yesterday's was fun, but this was an absolute riot! I loved describing the look on Holmes's face when he sees the flowers. I am still grinning so widely that I think my face is going to break in half :D**

**Thank you, Hades Lord of the Dead, for inviting me to join this challenge :)**

**And a HUGE thanks to anyone who reviewed/followed/faved, you are all appreciated (more than you know)!**


	5. December 5

******December 5: "**A character encounters sinking sand or a bog and expects to slowly sink to his death. What thoughts run through his mind? Is there a rescue?" (from Lemon Zinger)

**A/N: Warning for sadness/depressiveness, but it gets better at the end. I just kind of spoiled the ending, didn't I? Oh well...**

**I decided to take HOUN, and do a bit of an AU with it. Here goes...**

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I ran across the moor at such a high speed that I almost surprised myself. I knew I had to reach Stapleton before he could reach his little island of safety, if indeed he was destined to reach it. I had left Watson and Lestrade behind with the unfortunate Sir Henry, and gone after the criminal on my own.

As I sprinted down the path, the thought vaguely occurred to me that I had been so overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase to watch for the markers left by Stapleton and his wife. And now I was deep within the Great Grimpin Mire.

I had realized this fact only maybe half a second before my right foot caught on something, and I hit the ground.

Hard.

My aching limbs chose this moment to strongly protest my ill-treatment of them.

I scrambled to my feet, or attempted to, and realized with a sudden horror that my left foot was stuck, and I was sinking into the ground!

An overwhelming panic arose in my normally logical and well-organized mind.

My foot was stuck! I couldn't get out!

Inwardly, I cursed my own foolishness. Why had I gone after the man alone, knowing the danger of the mire?

The detached and logical part of my mind chose this moment to bluntly inform me that there was no way on earth that I could get my foot—no, now the entire bottom half of my shin—out of the mire unaided.

In other words, I was going to die.

Random and scattered thoughts, memories and images assaulted my mind, and fought for my attention. I thought of Mrs. Hudson and the flat at Baker street. I would never see either again. I thought of all the old acquaintances that I had been meaning to contact, but never had. I thought of the blundering fools at the Yard, and how they would be lost without their amateur detective to solve difficult cases and hand them the credit.

The world would certainly suffer a loss when I was gone. The thought almost gave me a strange sort of comfort, as my second leg began to sink. Even if I died alone, on a desolate moor, with no one to hear my last gasp, at least I would not be forgotten.

For a long time, I have known that I had the potential to become famous, and now I was. Fame had been my main goal since I was very young, and in thirty-five (short) years, I had achieved it. This too gave me a sort of peace, as I struggled to keep "afloat".

However, this was certainly neither the place nor the way I would have expected (or preferred) to meet my end. I have always had a fond hope that I would make my last stand defying the evils of the criminal world, with my Boswell by my side, until the very end.

But I saw then that this was impossible.

I would die alone, in the middle of a sparsely inhabited moor, leaving trace of how I had met my end.

This would be extremely hard on Watson, I knew. He cared far more about me than I would ever deserve, and if—when—I died, it would hurt him more deeply than any physical injury ever could. That thought combined with natural self-preservation instincts gave me the strength to try to stay alive, even if I struggled in vain.

It occurred to me that I had never really told or shown Watson how much he meant to me. I knew he knew, and that had always been enough. For both of us.

But not now. I wished that I had been a little warmer, a little more friendly, a little more... well, human.

I just wanted to have one more chance. One more chance to be a better friend. A better person.

_Please, give me one more chance._

I don't know if I thought the words to the mire, the empty air, or Providence, but it didn't really matter, at the time. I was in halfway up my chest now, despite all my efforts to save myself. There was no hope left for me.

It was there that I was wrong.

I had been so deep in thought that I had not heard the footsteps coming from behind me until the two men they belonged to were nearly on top of me.

"...do you suppose he went, Doctor?" I heard Inspector Lestrade's voice from behind me.

"Who knows?" replied Watson, sounding slightly out of breath. "Knowing Holmes, he's probably halfway- Great Scott!" Watson had nearly tripped over me as he walked swiftly by. "Holmes!"

"What the devil?!" Lestrade ejaculated, and soon he and Watson had grabbed hold of my arms and tried to drag me out. It took quite a struggle, but we soon defeated the mud dragging me down (minus one of my boots). It took a full minute to get the blood pumping normally through my legs again.

"You idiot, you nearly got yourself killed!" Watson fairly shouted in my ear, and I held up my hands in protest.

"Calm yourself, Watson!" I said. "I am safe, thanks to you and a certain Scotland Yard inspector." I nodded in Lestrade's direction, and gave him one of the rare smiles that are usually reserved for Watson. I felt that circumstances demanded a little more than a firm handshake.

Not to mention that _I_ didn't really want to shake my hand; it was covered in mud and whatever else (I really did not want to know). Lestrade looked very taken aback by the rare gesture.

_I probably shouldn't give the official force such a difficult time,_ I thought,_ if they are shocked by such a small thing_. There was another thing I resolved that I would do, now that I was alive.

I was alive! I had almost never been so happy to simply be _alive_ before, and I believe it showed on my face. They probably both thought me positively raving, so large and genuine a smile was on my face.

But it really didn't matter if I _was_ insane, because now I had another chance. A chance to be a better person, and more importantly a chance to be a better friend to the only one I had. The one who was smiling along with me, in the dead of night, as we followed the inspector down the path in search of a desperate criminal.

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**A/N: Well, it's a little more uplifting at the end. I hope that I didn't ruin anyone's good mood today...**

**I hope I can go back to writing nonsense & fluff tomorrow, but this was a good chance for me to practice more serious writing.**

**I would also like to point out that this is my first fanfiction written in first-person, so this is kind of a big thing for me. I started out writing it in third, but it screamed "must be written in first person!" so I had no choice.**

**And I apologize for the preposition ending the sentences starting with "'What the devil'...". and the one starting with: "Watson had nearly tripped..." I could _not_ come up with a way to rephrase either of them. *Stares down at feet***


	6. December 6

**December 6: Rain (from Sparky Dorian)**

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Watson had been focused on writing in his journal all afternoon, but was startled out of his thoughts when he heard a noise.

"Holmes, where are you going?" he asked after seeing his friend simultaneously shoving his arms through the sleeves on his jacket and shoving his feet into a pair of boots.

"I'm investigating that bank robbery Gregson has been working on," said Holmes as he put on his hat. "I fear that he is entirely on the wrong track, and I intend to prevent him from doing any further damage."

"But Holmes," said Watson, with evident concern in his voice, "It's been cold, windy and raining all day. You'll catch an awful cold—or worse—if you go out in these conditions."

Holmes only smiled as he headed toward the stairs. "I've been out in far worse before." As he took the seventeen stairs two at a time, he added over his shoulder, "I may be late; don't bother waiting up for me!"

Despite his friends parting words, Watson was still in the sitting room when his friend returned. It was nearly ten-thirty, when a detective who was as thoroughly irritated as he was soaked stormed into the sitting room, leaving a small river trailing behind him. He was startled to see Watson still up, and decided to take advantage of the opportunity to vent his frustrations.

"I thought there was more to that bank business, but Gregson seems to be in the right after all!" He emphasized his words by throwing his waterlogged shoes and hat near the fire.

"My instincts tell me that he is wrong, but all of the evidence points to Gregson's simple explanation!" He peeled off his socks and dropped them on top of his shoes before putting his jacket on the coatrack.

"After all of that, it was late enough that I could not find a cab, and I was forced to walk all the way back!"

Throughout Holmes's vehement tirade, Watson was torn between amusement and pity. The latter won out, and he gave his friend a sympathetic smile. Holmes either ignored or did not see it, and he pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket, and he threw it down on to Watson's writing desk.

"The water has ruined my watch, and—" Holmes just managed to stop himself before he began to complain about the cold he was likely to have for the next few days.

He had his pride.

So much pride, in fact, that he refused to admit that he was sick, even after three days of violent sneezing, coughing, and congested sinuses.

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**A/N: Poor Holmes! It's The Norwood Builder all over again, except with ****_Gregson_****! And bad weather!**

**When I read the prompt, the first thing I thought of was catching a cold, and the character voices in my head did this:**

**Holmes: ****_ACHOO!_**

**Watson: Are you catching a cold?**

**Holmes: No. Just a bit of dust in the air, that's all. *Waves hand***

**Watson: *Eye-roll Holmes doesn't see***

**Holmes: ****_ACHOOO!_**

**Now that we've established that I'm mental, have a good day and stay healthy!**


	7. December 7

**December 7: "runaway horse" (from mrspencil)**

**A/N: This one was really hard to write, but my mom gave me this idea.**

** (Thank you mom!)**

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"Did you ever learn to ride a horse?" Mary Watson asked her husband one night.

"Yes, I learned how to ride, but I was never very good at it," said Watson. "Did you?"

Mary nodded. "I learned how to ride when I was very young, only five or six I think, and I've always had a fair bit of natural talent."

Watson smiled a little ruefully. "I really can't say the same."

Mary gave him a questioning look.

"The first time I went horseback riding, I was terrified that I would fall off, or scare the horse, or not be able to get on in the first place..." Watson waved his hand as if to say, "Etc., etc."

"My father and my brother, Henry, helped me, but I was still scared stiff." He smiled fondly at the memory. "After they taught me the basics, we all three went for a ride, and after a couple of minutes I was feeling a little more confident about it. I think I would have been fine, if Henry hadn't decided that I could go a little faster. He slapped my mount on the rear, and it took off quite a bit faster than either of us intended."

"I still would have been fine, if it wasn't for the fact that a rabbit decided to run out in front of the horse. I _still _would have been okay, if the neighbor's dog hadn't been _chasing_ said rabbit. My horse swerved to get out of the way, and I flew off and into a mud puddle."

"Did you get hurt?" asked Mary.

"No," said Watson. "Well, I don't really remember. I might have sprained a wrist, but nothing worse than that. But I would have stayed on that horse if it weren't for the rabbit and the dog!" he insisted earnestly.

Mary gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure you had everything under control."

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**A/N: Heehee. Poor Watson :)**

**I apologize to the horse-lovers out there for my vagueness, but I really know next to nil about horses. I believe I have ridden a horse only once or twice in my life, and it wasn't really my thing.**

**My muse decided to go on holiday yesterday and today, and the only reason I have anything is because of suggestions from my mom. **

***Glares at muse* **

**Oh, well. It's been working overtime lately anyway. I just hope it decides to come back in time for tomorrow's fic.**


	8. December 8

**December 8: "Leave me alone" (from embracetheweird)**

**A/N: Sorry for the late posting; me weekend has been crazy! I've been doing Christmas cooking/decorating/helping with a Christmas play...**

**Good news! My muse returned yesterday! *Hugs muse* It was probably worried that it would be unemployed if it didn't come back. I guess horseback riding didn't really suit it.**

**Now the important thing: Enjoy the story!**

_Knock, knock, knock._

"Holmes, are you all right?" Watson asked the closed door of his friend's bedroom. It was ten o'clock now, well over two hours later than Holmes normally got up. There was no answer from within, so Watson knocked again.

_Knock, knock, knock!_

This time he was answered by an unintelligible voice, followed by the sound of something falling, and a muffled shout.

Watson was becoming increasingly worried. "Holmes?!"

_KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!_

"Holmes, I'm coming in there!" Watson had put his hand on the doorknob and was about to follow through with his statement when he heard Holmes's voice from within.

"No, Watson! That will not be necessary! I assure you, I am quite all right!" His tone, however, was nearer to hysterical than he normally allowed it to be, and suggested that his words were not entirely true. Watson was not convinced in the least.

He was even less so, when he heard another loud crash and a yelp from within.

"Holmes, what in blazes is going on in there?!"

"Nothing, Watson! I assure you, everything is fine! Do not concern yourse-" His statement was cut off by another crash and a very ungentlemanly shriek from Holmes's bedroom.

"Holmes, I'm coming in there!" Watson called. He grabbed the door knob, and yanked the door open with a lot more force than was necessary, just in time to catch a falling Sherlock Holmes. He was only half dressed, and the clothing he had on was shredded in several places. He was covered in scratches, many of which were bleeding, his hair was unkempt, and there was a terror in his eyes that Watson had never seen, though they had faced the deadliest criminals of the London underworld together.

Watson stumbled backward as the weight of his friend threw him off balance, and as he did so caught sight of the steel poker Holmes held in a death grip. As Holmes regained his footing, Watson looked up, and gasped at what he saw.

Holmes's bedroom looked as though it had been the scene of a bar-fight. Or perhaps a small tornado. Books, papers, various articles of clothing, pieces of Holmes's burglary kit, and random chemistry paraphernalia littered the floor, along with his mattress and most of the bedclothes. The pictures of famous criminals that normally adorned the walls were all either hanging crooked or had fallen off entirely. Watson had seen his friend's room in terrible disarray before, but never as bad as this!

"Good heavens, Holmes!" cried Watson. "What were you _doi_-" He stopped as a large, half-starved, yellow-eyed cat sprang out from behind the bed and attached itself to Holmes's chest, yowling it's displeasure and attempting to claw at Holmes's face. Watson helped the detective fight off his attacker, earning a few scratches on his hands in the process. It fell to the floor and meowed loud enough that Watson was sure anyone within a half-mile could hear it. Holmes attempted to hold it off using the poker, but it managed to latch itself onto Watson's leg. It hissed as Watson shouted out in pain, vaguely wondering just how dirty the claws currently digging into his skin were. Holmes detached the angry feline from his friend's leg, but lost his footing and stumbled backward into the sitting room, where the fight continued.

The cat jumped out of Holmes's hands, onto his shoulder, and then flew through the air and landing gracefully on the back of Watson's chair by the fireplace. Watson followed his friend into the room, and faced their assailant, who yowled at them over its shoulder. The doctor took a few steps toward the cat, intending to grab it and take it out the door, but the cat was apparently not interested in this course of action.

It leaped from the back of the chair to the seat and from there to the floor in less than a second, then it flew across the floor like lightening, making a beeline for Watson's writing desk. The two men chased their antagonist across the room, but not fast enough to stop it from climbing on top of the desk, and spilling a bottle of ink all over the journal Watson had been writing in before checking on his friend. Watson lunged at the animal, barely missing it as it hurtled toward the doorway leading to the stairs.

_Good_, Watson thought as he turned on his heel to follow it. _Now we just need to head it down the stairs and out the door_. Watson had not yet noticed that the "we" had become an "I", as Holmes was not interested in being any closer to "that fiend", as he phrased it in his mind, than was absolutely necessary.

Watson chased said fiend down the seventeen stairs, where it slunk back into the corner and prepared to spring. As Watson yanked the door open, the cat latched itself onto his arm. He used the opposite hand to tear the cat off and tossed it down on to the pavement before slamming the door behind him.

With a sigh of relief, Watson leaned back against the door and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Only then, did he notice that Holmes was not anywhere near him.

"Holmes?"

"Is it gone?!" came the reply, in a near-hysterical tone which surprised Watson.

"Yes, it's gone," he said, climbing back up the stairs. When he reached the sitting room, he was even more shocked to see his friend pale-faced and actually _shaking_.

"Holmes, are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes, Watson, I will be fine." Then he added as an afterthought, "I have always _hated_ cats, ever since a childhood incident involving one of those little devils." He pulled a disgusted face. "I'm sure Mycroft was behind it, but I never could prove it..." He trailed off into a sulky silence.

"Where could it have possibly come from?" mused Watson.

"That is precisely what I'd like to know!" Holmes exclaimed, now a little looking more like his usual self. He glanced back toward his bedroom, and grimaced. "I need to clean that up before Mrs. Hudson sees it."

Watson nodded earnestly. "I'll clean up the ink, and you can start on your bedroom."

Holmes took a deep breath and nodded, obviously trying to muster the willpower it would take to clean up the wreckage.

"Cats? Of all things, cats?!" Watson muttered incredulously to himself as his friend exited the room, still clutching the poker.

"Leave me alone, Watson!"

**A/N: Awww. Poor Holmes. But I have to agree with Watson. "Cats? Of all things, cats?!" **

**I just hope their cuts don't get infected.**

**One more thing: I hope to get today's (written and) up... soon. No guarantees, though.**


	9. December 9

**December 9: "Ten Word Challenge: White, Toxic, Crisis, Hood, Fall, Cripple, Steadfast, Lurking, Beacon, Brawn, Dismiss" (from Lemon Zinger)**

**A/N: This was both easier and harder than I thought it would be.**

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes and his **steadfast** biographer, Dr. Watson, were visited in their rooms at Baker Street by the strangest twosome they had seen in a long while. The first man was short, and obviously **crippled**, while his companion was tall and **brawny**. The second man was **lurking** behind the first, and both their faces were almost completely covered by dark colored **hoods**. Most of their other clothing was **white**, save their boots, which were light brown.

As they entered the sitting room, the shorter man tripped and nearly **fell**, but the other man caught his arm and saved him from discovering just how solid the floor was in a very inconvenient, not to mention painful, way.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said Watson, holding out his hand to shake theirs. They either could not see it through their hoods, or were simply too rude to take notice. Watson dropped his hand. "Please, sit down." They did so, and then the shorter man began to tell them their story.

"We are in the midst of a **crisis **as the world has never known," he said. His voice was hoarse and rather squeaky. Watson grabbed a pen and journal at random prepared to take notes.

"The facts, please," said Holmes impatiently.

"Very well," said the man, a little disgruntled by the interruption. "My friend and I-" he gestured at the other man "-manage a company dealing with extremely **toxic** chemicals. We recently discovered - just last week, in fact - that some of these chemicals are being smuggled out of the building, and possibly out of the country."

"Can you tell us about the nature of these chemicals?" asked Holmes.

"No. I am sorry, but this information is heavily guarded and we not allowed to speak of it."

"I see. And your names?"

"We cannot give you our names either. We are to remain anonymous."

Holmes gave a curt nod. "Go on."

"We have interrogated all of the workers, but all seem loyal enough, and all have been working for us over five years. We are at a loss as to what to do. If you will only help us, we will repay you handsomely!" The little man was practically begging now.

Holmes waved away the offer. "I do not desire your money. However, I will want to be repaid for any expenses I may incur while solving your case."

The man nodded earnestly. "Whatever you say, sir."

"Now, when did you first discover that your chemicals were being stolen?" asked Holmes.

"Five days ago, now... so Thursday."

"And what steps did you take?"

"We interrogated all of the men in our employment, and checked their police records," said the man.

"Is is possible that one or more of them are going by false names?"

The man thought for a moment. "Yes, I suppose they could be, and I would never know the difference. Now that you say that, there are several men in my employ that look remarkably like those famous smugglers that just got out of jail back in July of... is it six years ago now?"

"Johnston, Barker, and Mason?" asked Holmes, now looking more interested.

"Yes, precisely! It is just possible that they are in fact the same men!" He jumped to his feet and shook Holmes's hand. "Mr. Holmes, you are a **beacon** in the darkness of crime in this great city! I cannot possibly thank you enough!"

Holmes smiled slightly, but said nothing.

The tall man, who had remained silent through the entire affair now spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly and he had a slight Irish accent. "Thank you kindly, sir," he said, also rising to shake Holmes's hand. "We shall find out whether or not these men are indeed the famous smugglers, and inform you about any fresh developments."

Holmes nodded, and **dismissed** the men from the room.

* * *

**A/N: The short guy doesn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. A few smugglers get out of jail, and then not long afterwards, you hire three men that look "remarkably like" them? **

**Random side note: I Googled "English last names" to help come up with the names of the smugglers. I found a list of names and their meanings, and out of curiosity, clicked on "Holmes". It apparently means an island, or someone who lived/lives on an island. I thought that was pretty cool (plus I have an obsession with names), and I didn't know if anyone else knew that, so I put it here :)**

**And "Watson" has to do with "leader of the army" or just "army".**


	10. December 10

**December 10: "Mrs. Hudson cleans out the flat while Holmes is away on a case. She finds something that shocks her (even for Holmes)." (from Sparky Dorian)**

**A/N: Takes place during Watson's marriage.**

* * *

By the time she had been Sherlock Holmes's landlady for nine years, Mrs. Hudson thought she had seen everything. For this reason, she wasn't particularly nervous about cleaning out the flat while Holmes was away. After tidying up the sitting room and putting all of the papers from various cases on Holmes's desk (she was certainly NOT his secretary), she started on his bedroom.

She had put the violin in its case, picked up the clothes on the floor, washed the windows, straightened the pictures on the walls, and dusted most of the furniture when she heard a small scuffling sound from between the bed and the wall. She had grown to be more than a little wary of anything that she found in Mr. Holmes's rooms, so she very carefully looked behind the bed.

The only things down there were two or three socks, a few runaway cuff-links, a fair amount of dust, and a smallish box. She heard the scuffling sound again, and realized it was coming from inside the box. Her curiosity overcame her caution, and she extracted it from the surrounding dust bunnies.

Upon opening the box, she was surprised to discover that it was an adorable orange kitten! She removed it from its imprisonment, and carried it down to the kitchen with her.

* * *

**A/N: Heeheehee. Wiggins probably gave it to him. **

**And Holmes was probably so terrified that he stuck it in a box and shoved it behind the bed.**

**Mrs. Hudson will take good care of the kitten. Reviewers are welcome to name it!**

**Added note: Thank you "W33" for your review! I had never heard of that Schrodinger's cat thing, but that's really interesting. That probably is what Holmes was doing.**


	11. December 11

**December 11: "Wrapping paper." (from Werepanther33)**

**A/N: ****With a special appearance of a friend from yesterday... ****(Thanks for the name, Book girl fan!)**

**********Yeah, yeah. I know yesterday I said that it took place during Watson's marriage, but let's just forget that now. The opportunity was just too good to pass up. :)**

"Have either of you two seen Sockball this morning?" asked Mrs. Hudson worriedly as she set down the breakfast tray on the table next to Holmes and Watson one frigid December morning. "I haven't seen him since last night."

"I haven't either, Mrs. Hudson," said Watson.

"Hmm? What about a sock-ball?" asked Holmes absently from behind one of his newspapers.

"Your kitten, Holmes," said Watson slowly, as if he was speaking to someone either deaf or stupid. (At the moment, Holmes seemed to be both.)

"It's not my kitten!" exclaimed Holmes, slamming the paper down to give his friend his best death-glare. Watson returned the glare with an innocent look, and eventually Holmes gave up the attempt. "It is _not_ my fault that client, Mrs. Dowley or whatever her name was, felt the need to give me the beast, even when I told her in no uncertain terms that _I did not want it_!"

"And then you left it in a box to _starve_?!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. "No creature deserves to be your pet! I will not let you anywhere near him!" Then she added as an afterthought, "That is, when I find him."

"We'll watch out for Sockball, won't we Holmes?" said Watson, giving the detective a pointed look, which the latter ignored. Mrs. Hudson smiled at Watson, and gave Holmes a contemptuous glance (which he also ignored) and left the room.

"Honestly, Watson," said Holmes. "I will never understand how women name their pets. _Sockball_? What kind of a name is _that_?"

Watson shrugged, and poured himself a cup of coffee. "She _did_ find it behind your bed, which tends to be the place where all your stray socks end up."

"How do you know what's behind my bed?" asked Holmes .

Watson suppressed an eye roll, and said, "Remember when Mrs. Hudson found that poisonous plant in your room and refused to clean it for a month? Who did you think cleaned your room while you were away on that case for a week?!"

Holmes fell silent for a moment. "Oh."

Luckily for both parties, the semi-awkward silence was broken by a loud meowing from under the Christmas tree Watson and Mrs. Hudson had insisted on putting up in the corner. Watson stood up, and walked over to the tree, and was greeted by a falling roll of wrapping paper, which hit squarely him on the knee. The wrapping paper was quickly followed by a small orange kitten, intent on attacking the wrapping paper with its tiny paws. Watson picked it up and smiled.

"Isn't he cute?" he asked, stroking its fur. Sockball purred.

Holmes gave Watson a look that clearly stated that he did not agree.

"How can you possibly be afraid of him?" asked Watson. Sockball gave Holmes an angelic look, which was returned with a glare.

"He's just biding his time, Watson. You had better watch out!" said Holmes watching the kitten warily, as it poked the buttons on Watson's shirt.

Watson snorted. "Sure you don't want to hold him?"

Holmes gave Watson a mortified stare before shouting, "MRS. HUDSON, WE FOUND YOUR CAT, NOW PLEASE COME TAKE IT!" It did not take long for the landlady to rush back to the sitting room and claim her kitten. Watson seemed almost reluctant to hand it over; he was actually becoming attached to the creature.

As he did so, Sockball jumped out of his arms and returned to his quest to discover the treasure hidden beneath the surface of the wrapping paper. Mrs. Hudson smiled and Watson chuckled, but Holmes merely gave all three of them his blackest scowl (which was ignored).

Since the kitten seemed to be in no hurry to leave his prize behind, Mrs. Hudson took the wrapping paper along with the kitten away with her.

**A/N: *****Hugs Sockball, and Holmes scowls again***


	12. December 12

**December 12: "Soundtrack" (from I'm Nova)**

**A/N: HAPPY 12-12-12, EVERYBODY! **

**I would put this up at 12:12, but I don't have that much patience :)**

**HUGE thank-you to my mom & sister for helping me come up with this idea!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Inspector Lestrade were sitting in the flat at Baker Street, once again going over their plan to capture two murderers: John Davies and George Rider. Their mission had to be handled with extreme caution, as the men were mentally unstable, and might willingly kill anyone who came near them.

This had been learned by experience, but luckily no one had been very seriously injured in the skirmish of the previous day, and they had managed to arrest one of the men (James Tyler). To make matters worse, the two remaining criminals had been staying in public places, where there would be plenty of opportunities for hostages. The men were currently in a museum.

On the positive side, only Rider was armed (and he only had two shots left), as Davies had dropped his revolver when he fled with his companion during their previous encounter with the law.

"Watson, when we first enter the museum, where will you be?" asked Holmes.

"I will be walking next to you, and go where you go." He answered the question automatically, as if he had already answered it a dozen times. He probably had.

"Excellent. And Lestrade?"

"I will walk faster than the two of you, and find Rider," said Lestrade.

"And?"

"Make sure he does _not_ see me."

"Precisely," said Holmes. "Watson and I will follow at a distance, keeping an eye out for Davies. He may not be armed, but he is definitely still dangerous. Now, when we have located both of the men, what will we do?"

Watson and Lestrade answered at the same time. "I will pretend to be having a conversation with you, while you watch Lestrade and Rider behind me," said Watson.

"I will stay close to Rider, without allowing him to know that I am there, until Watson gives the signal." Neither had to repeat themselves, since all three of them knew exactly what had to be done.

"What is the signal?"

"I will stoop down as if I am adjusting my shoe."

"When will you do this?"

"When you give the code word," said Watson. Holmes looked at him expectantly. "Sound-track." he added.

"I will give the signal when...?"

"When you see that Rider is unprepared for an attack, and he won't be able to reach his gun."

Holmes nodded. "When we give the signal, what will you do, Lestrade?"

"I will grab him from behind, and take his gun from him."

"And Watson?"

"I will follow Davies, or block the exit he is heading toward, so that he does not escape." He added as an afterthought, "And you will assist either of us as needed."

"Wonderful!" ejaculated Holmes. "I do believe we are now ready!"

The day's events, however, took a drastically different turn than planned. When they reached the museum, they found that the usual museum-goers were not there; instead there were several police constables and one detective: Inspector Gregson.

"I seem to have beaten you to it, this time," said Gregson to Lestrade, with a smirk.

"What's going on here?" asked Holmes.

"You mean you haven't heard?!" asked Gregson incredulously.

"What are you talking about? What's happened?" asked Watson.

"George Rider shot and killed John Davies, before turning the gun on himself!"

For a moment, all four of them stood in silence. Then-

"Well, I guess all that planning was for nothing," said Holmes despondently.

"Were you _hoping_ we'd have to chase a couple of madmen through London?" asked Watson, raising his eyebrows.

"He probably was," Lestrade assured him. The comment earned him a glare from Holmes and a muffled snigger from Gregson.

"I'm just glad we won't have to worry about them terrorizing the London populace any longer," said Watson.

"Cheer up, Holmes," said Gregson, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm sure we'll find a few more criminals for you to hunt down by next week.

Holmes only grunted. "Come, Watson," he said. "We can do nothing more here."

* * *

**A/N: While they were going over the plan, I kept having flashbacks to Harry Potter: "I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise, and pretending I don't exist."**


	13. December 13

**December 13: "Christmas Tree" (from ImaLateBloomer)**

**A/N: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED DURING THE MAKING OF THIS FANFIC!**

"Good heavens, Holmes!" exclaimed Watson as he came down to breakfast one morning. "What is that awful smell?!" Holmes had been finishing one of his all-night chemistry experiments, and this one seemed to have taken an unexpected, not to mention malodorous, turn.

"The chemistry experiment I was telling you about last night," Holmes explained simply as he removed a smoking beaker from the flame of a Bunsen burner using a pair of tongs. He was sitting cross-legged with his clothes rumpled and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, by the wall nearest to his bedroom, his chemicals, vials, and beakers all around him.

"The one that will determine whether Jonas Wilson is responsible for the murder of his brother?" asked Watson, waving his hand in front of his face in a vain effort to fight off the smell. "We should really open a window, Holmes. This poisonous atmosphere is giving me a headache." He walked over to the window and opened it a couple of inches, and was promptly greeted by a gust of icy wind that seemed very eager to dump the snow it had been carrying all over him.

"Brrr!" ejaculated Watson.

"Stunning deduction, Watson. And yes, this is the experiment meant to determine if Mr. Wilson is guilty."

"Is he?" asked Watson with interest, closing the window and then shivering as he brushed the melting snowflakes off his arms.

"No, he is innocent, as I suspected," said Holmes, beginning to reorganize some of his chemistry equipment. "Now comes the more difficult question: who killed Arthur Wilson, if it was not his brother. We know that the maid was grievously ill, and the footman out of town, so we can rule them out, at least. That only leaves the butler, the cook, and-"

He was cut off as an orange streak rushed through the sitting room doorway and barreled into the chemistry equipment. Holmes gave a shout, and jumped up, looking like some strange jack-in-the-box, and knocked over two beakers of chemicals, both of which spilled their contents all over the floor. When the two different liquids met, they promptly proceeded to spontaneously combust, and were kind enough to share their flames with the kitten's tail and the bottom of Holmes's right trouser leg.

Sockball meowed in an agitated tone, and Holmes swore loudly as they both attempted to avoid being flambéed. Watson dashed across the room to help Holmes put out the fire. They managed to extinguish the flames on Holmes's clothing and on the floor by stamping it out, but Sockball had no such luck. He ran around in circles, and over toward the Christmas tree in the corner, promptly setting a small portion on the bottom ablaze before running back out from under the tree and into Mrs. Hudson, who had come up to ask if Sockball was in the sitting room.

The question died before the words arrived anywhere near her lips, and she shrieked at the sight of her precious kitten as she scooped him up, and put out the fire on his tail. The poor frightened kitten meowed loudly in her arms.

"MR. HOLMES, DR. WATSON!" she exclaimed vehemently. "WHAT ARE YOU _DOING _UP HERE?!"

Holmes and Watson exchanged guilty looks before simultaneously attempting to explain.

"You see, Mrs. Hudson," explained Holmes, doing his best to calm her wrath, "I was cleaning up a chemical experiment when that little_ monster _of yours came in here and upset a few of my chemicals. They spontaneously combusted, setting your kitten and my trouser-leg on fire..."

"Holmes was finishing an experiment, when your kitten came in and upset a few of his chemicals," said Watson hurriedly. "They started a small fire - don't worry, we put it out! - and it set Holmes's trousers and your kitten's tail afire..."

So it was, that no one saw the Christmas tree going up in flames until it was too late to save it.

Looking up from her two frantically explaining tenants, Mrs. Hudson gasped in horror upon seeing the burning tree, and Holmes and Watson turned to look at what had shocked her. Watson grabbed a pitcher of water, and dumped it on the fire, putting out most of it. Holmes extinguished the remaining flames using the lukewarm contents of the mostly-empty coffee pot.

For a moment, the three of them (and the kitten) just stood there staring at the still-smoking remains of what used to be an excellent Christmas tree.

Finally Watson sighed. "Why is it Christmas trees never actually last until Christmas around here?!"

**A/N: *Giggle* The answer's standing next to you and wearing singed trousers, Watson!**

**Poor Sockball! I hope he gets better soon. *Sockball hisses at author***


	14. December 14

**December 14: "Holmes's reaction to The Hobbit" (from SheWhoScrawls)**

**A/N: Oh my goodness; you guys have no idea how perfect this was for me! I am an ****OBSESSED**** fan of The Hobbit, and I've read it a ridiculous number of times, and I'm going to the movie on Saturday- wearing my John sweater! *Giggles***

**A sequel to December 6.**

* * *

"_ACHOO!_" Holmes gave a violent sneeze, and then grumbled incomprehensibly.

"It's your own fault you decided to chase after those criminals before you recovered from that cold!" remonstrated Watson firmly.

"And I suppose it's my fault that Lynch decided to attack me the moment I laid hands on Stanbury?"

"You could have at least brought me along with you," said Watson in a slightly hurt tone.

"Oh, not this argument again," groaned Holmes. "We've gone through this one at least four times in the last three days, Watson."

Watson sighed and let the matter drop (for the moment). "A client of yours sent you a gift, Holmes," he said, walking over to Holmes's desk.

"What is it?" asked Holmes grumpily, and sneezed again.

"A book," said Watson, holding up a small novel titled _The Hobbit_.

"Hmmph," grunted Holmes. "Looks boring."

"It looks all right to me," said Watson. "And no, you are not going to start criticizing my choice of reading material," he added as Holmes opened his mouth. "I'm sure it's very interesting, and it's not as if you are going to have anything better to do for the next week."

"Watson, I'm sure the ceiling is more _interesting_ than that novel. I'm not going to read it," he said with an air of finality, and glared at Watson, as if daring him to try to dissuade him from his opinion. Watson rose to the challenge, and a lengthy glaring contest ensued. To his (and Holmes's) surprise, he won. This, more than anything else, was proof that Holmes was far from being well.

"I'm going to read it aloud," said Watson, picking up the book and flipping it to the first page. Holmes groaned and pulled the bedclothes over his head.

"In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit."

"What on earth is a hobbit?!" asked Holmes, poking his head out of his cocoon.

"Let me at least get through the first page, Holmes! It'll probably explain later on."

"...Bungo, that was Bilbo's father, built the most luxurious hobbit hole for her-"

"Honestly, Watson," said Holmes exasperatedly. "Why would I care about this 'Philmo' or whatever his name is and his father's so-called hobbit-hole?"

"Just let me read, Holmes."

"'...gave the Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone until ordered? Not the fellow who-'"

"How ridiculous!" ejaculated Holmes.

"It's just a story," said Watson impatiently.

"'...Dwalin and Balin are here already, I see,' said Kili. 'Let us join-'"

"Kili? Dalin? Zofur? Boffin? Why the strange names, Watson?"

"I don't know! Just let me read, okay?!"

"..._Pound them up with a thumping pole; And when you've finished, if any are whole_-"

"Good heavens, Watson! I don't think you could have chosen a more effective form of torture!"

Watson's only response was a growl, and he began reading again.

"..._To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere_-"

"Not another poem!" Holmes exclaimed. Watson ignored him.

"...said the wizard. 'Your grandfather Thror was killed, you remember, in the mines of Moria by Azog the Goblin-'"

"Goblins?!" exclaimed Holmes. "Watson, this is a _children's story_!"

"...drink at hand, and they were drinking out of jugs. But they were trolls. Obviously tr-"

"Trolls?! Watson, this is getting ridiculous!"

"'...Hmm! it smells like elves!' thought Bilbo, and he look-"

"Smells like elves?! How do you stand this?!"

They spent the next two hours reading in this sporadic fashion, until Watson finally surrendered.

"Holmes, you are undoubtably the worst patient I have ever encountered!" exclaimed Watson, now two snide remarks away from tearing out his hair and being carted off to an asylum.

"And you have the worst taste in reading material!" retorted Holmes. Watson sighed, and left the room. Holmes was very proud of his victory, even if he had liked the book a good deal more than he let on.

Stretching out his hand as far as it would go, he picked up the book and started where Watson had left off.

"_Thief, thief, thief! Baggins! We hates it, we hates it, we hates it for ever!_"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I know everybody's a little OOC here, but honestly, how else was I supposed to get Holmes to read ****_The Hobbit_****? And an opportunity to make Holmes like it was too good to pass up :)**

***Holmes mutters something about uncalled-for torture, and Watson glares***


	15. December 15

**December 15: "Holmes receives Christmas card from Irene Adler" (from ImaLateBloomer)**

**A/N: Takes place the a few days before the first Christmas after Holmes's Hiatus.**

* * *

"Anything of interest, Holmes?" asked Watson as Holmes sorted through the post. They had been gone on a case in the country for the past four days, so there was a considerable amount of it.

"Hmm? No, not really," he said. "A few simple armchair cases, and a several Christmas cards - oh, look, here's one from the Irregulars!" He handed it to Watson, who smiled. Almost all of the boys had signed it, and one of them had even added an adorable drawing of a Christmas tree to one of the corners.

"What's this?" asked Holmes in bewilderment. Watson looked up from the card, and leaned closer to Holmes to see what he was looking at. The envelope was postmarked from New York, and from a Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Norton. Holmes sliced the envelope open with his letter opener and pulled out the card.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_We're glad to hear you are still alive. Have a very merry Christmas._

_Godfrey and Irene Norton_

* * *

**A/N: Sorry to disappoint any fans of the Holmes & Irene relationship, but she ****_did_**** get married.**


	16. December 16

**December 16: "Holmes doesn't like Christmas. Why?" (from Werepanther33)**

**A/N: Hooray! I got it posted before today ended!**

**Based on the backstory my mind generates on a regular basis, and a nightmare I had a while back. Features one of my original characters, who has not yet appeared in any stories (on this site). Warning for angst and character death.**

* * *

Every year on Christmas Eve, it was the same nightmare.

Sherlock Holmes wished he could make it stop, or better yet, that events that inspired the nightmares had never happened.

But he couldn't, and the events played through his overactive subconscious mind every year.

* * *

The Holmes family: Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft, Sherlock and little Janie had been eating their Christmas dinner, and in eleven-year-old Sherlock Holmes's mind, this was the best year yet. Their father had taken time away from his work to actually try to _enjoy_ the holiday for a change, and all three of the Holmes children, especially the younger two, were enjoying this novelty immensely.

They had smelled the smoke coming up from the lower floors, but had dismissed it as a small accident in the kitchen. Soon the alarm was raised, but by then it was too late.

Then there was fire. Red, hot, burning fire. Their dining room, which was in the centre of the house and farthest from any exits, was soon surrounded by the flames.

Mr. Holmes and Mycroft forced one of the doors open, and helped Janie and Mrs. Holmes through it. Sherlock came next, and then Mycroft. Just as they were reaching the door, part of the floor collapsed, and pulled Mrs. Holmes, who was carrying Janie, down into a large hole. The room below was so full of fire it appeared to be some smaller version of hell on earth.

Janie screamed, but managed to grab the edge of the solid floor as her mother fell. Sherlock ran to Janie's side, and bracing his knees against the floor, grabbed her arms in an attempt to pull her out. But she was to heavy for him, and she was slipping.

Sherlock refused to let go, even though he knew he would fall with her if he didn't.

He was sliding across the floor and coming dangerously close to the edge, when Mycroft's voice came in a low growl next to his ear.

"I am _not_ losing both of you!"

He grabbed one of Janie's arms, and together they dragged her out of the abyss. She managed to help them get her out of the hole before passing out from the fumes. Mycroft picked her up, and draped her over his shoulder.

Sherlock was just starting to wonder where their father was, and why he had not helped them save Janie, they heard his voice shouting from behind them.

They turned to see their father with his legs pinned under part of the wall, shouting at them in every way possible in the English language to save themselves and leave him behind.

The two brothers looked at each other, their faces showing matching expressions of indecision. Then in the same instant, they rushed toward their father, and after Mycroft set their sister down, they tried to pull him out from under the heavy wall.

But both Mr. Holmes and the wall were far too heavy, and they couldn't move either.

After about thirty seconds of struggling in vain, Mycroft scooped up his sister again, and grabbing his brothers arm, they raced toward the exit, and escaped out the back door.

The two Holmes brothers sprinted across the lawn as fast as their legs would take them, before they stopped and looked back.

The house where they had grown up together was now a blazing mass of flames and smoke, reaching its long fingers up to the starry heavens above.

Mycroft sat down on the frozen ground, and put his sister in his lap. Sherlock sat down next to him and buried his face in his brother's sleeve.

* * *

There was no way to stop the nightmares from coming, and come they did, until it was nearly unbearable. But he found if he managed to forget about the holiday, he could almost—_almost_—forget the past.

* * *

**A/N: I. Am. So. Depressing.**

**This wasn't as good as I had hoped it would be, but I've had to write A LOT lately for school projects, and my muse has decided to curl up in a corner and ignore my frantic shouting to "for goodness sake, just help me!"**

***Resists the urge to throw things around the room and pout like a two-year-old* **

**The strange thing is, I was sure Jane was going to die, but then she didn't. Then again, my fictional characters seem like nothing better than proving me wrong.**

**By the way, I've written up another short story with Jane Holmes (who is mine, by the way) and I hope to get it revised and posted by sometime in January.**


	17. December 17

**December 17: "Holmes takes Watson out to the opera for his birthday, Watson was delighted until he found out the real reason why they went to the opera." (from Rockztar)**

* * *

"Thank you, Holmes!" said Watson for the umpteenth time as they took their seats at the opera.

"Yes, yes," said Holmes, waving off his thanks. "It's nothing, Watson, really."

It was a wonderful performance, and Watson was enjoying himself immensely, when about halfway through, Holmes gave a little grunt of impatience. Watson turned to look at his friend, who was grinding his teeth and drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"What is it Holmes?" asked Watson quietly.

"Nothing, Watson," whispered Holmes a little too quickly for Watson's liking. Watson gave him a look that said as much. Holmes sighed.

"It's that case I was working on yesterday," he added reluctantly. "I thought that at least _one_ of the men in that counterfeiting gang would come to this performance today!"

Watson raised his eyebrows. "So _that's_ why you took me to the opera. You thought it would help with one of your cases." He crossed his arms. "I should have guessed as much." He wasn't really (very) disappointed, but Watson figured that Holmes _did_ have a bit of (mostly) friendly teasing coming after the fiasco of the previous week, a tale for which the world is not yet prepared.

"No! whispered Holmes indignantly (and a little too loudly; several people sent him scathing looks, and he continued in a lower voice). "It wasn't _just _that! I really _did_ want to take you to the opera for your birthday, it just happened that one or two of those men could have been coming too, and..." He trailed off.

"Mhmm." whispered Watson. "So you were wanting to chase a couple of criminals down for my birthday?"

"Not necessarily..." Holmes squirmed, and Watson shook his head. They turned their attention back to the opera, which turned out to be far less eventful than Holmes had hoped.

That was just fine with Watson.

* * *

**A/N: Haha, I just deprived Holmes of another epic chase through London.**

**(I think I overused parenthesis in this one, but I really couldn't help myself!)**

**Again, a HUGE thanks to anyone who reviewed/followed/faved! I I haven't thanked you kind people in a couple of weeks now, and you are still very appreciated!**


	18. December 18

**December 18: "Wiggins goes missing" (from Spockologist)**

**A/N: All I could think when I saw the prompt was Lemon Zinger's December 1st fic. :'(**

* * *

Holmes and Watson were eating breakfast one morning, when they heard the door open, followed by several frantic young voices and quick footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, eight of the Baker Street Irregulars hurried into the sitting room.

All of them began talking at once, but Holmes and Watson caught "Wiggins" and "gone" several times in their incoherent speech.

With a sinking heart, Holmes called out, "Quiet! Quiet! One at a time!"

They immediately silenced, and all glanced at each other, before a taller, dark haired child spoke up. "Wiggins is gone!" he blurted. "No one knows where 'e is!" All of the other Irregulars nodded emphatically.

Watson saw his friend's face become grim, and was sure his own matched Holmes's.

"You have checked anywhere you could, and asked anyone who might know?" Holmes asked anxiously.

"Yes, Mr. 'Olmes! We can't find 'im anywhere! We spent near 'alf of yesterday searchin'!"

"Do you have any idea where he might be, Holmes?" asked Watson in a worried tone.

Holmes's frown lines deepened. "He was watching the house of a man I strongly suspected of being the one who robbed Mr. Burke's house last week. I never dreamed anything would happen to the lad..." he trailed off, and shook his head. "I'll need some time to think before I decide upon a course of action," he added more resolutely.

"You lads keep an eye out for him, all right?" said Watson to the boys.

They all nodded and gave various versions of "Yessir!" and "We'll look for 'im!" before descending the stairs.

Holmes abandoned his breakfast for a pipe, and sat himself down in his chair by the fireplace for the next half hour, during which Watson finished his breakfast and Mrs. Hudson came up to get the breakfast dishes (and sniffed disdainfully when she saw the amount Holmes had left on his plate).

After that amount of time had passed, Holmes jumped up and his pipe back on the mantlepiece before he began pacing restlessly up and down the room. After several minutes of pacing, he startled Watson out of the book he was reading by suddenly speaking.

"What on earth could have happened to the boy?" he exclaimed. "Wiggins knows how to take care of himself, and if the Irregulars cannot find him, no one can!" He increased his pace. "I can't possibly believe that Mr. Allen—the man I suspect of the robbery—would kidnap a child! So it must have been someone or somethi—"

He was cut short by a loud crash from Holmes's bedroom. Holmes and Watson jumped to their feet, and sprinted over to his door, Watson grabbing his revolver out of a drawer on his way. Holmes held out his hand to take the revolver, and Watson handed it to him.

"Follow me," Holmes said, and holding the gun protectively in front of them, they entered the room.

There were very few times in their lives that they were as surprised as the two of them were they when looked in.

Wiggins was lying on the floor attempting to pull a hyperactive orange kitten off his shirtfront.

"Grroff me!" he exclaimed. In three strides, Watson crossed the room and pried the kitten off of him, and attempted to hold on the the squirming mass of fur.

"Wiggins, what are you doing?!" exclaimed Holmes, (keeping his distance from the kitten in Watson's arms) as the boy picked himself up. "How did you get in here?"

Wiggins jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the window, which was open. "You left the window open, and since it was April Fool's day, I thought I'd sneak in and surprise you."

To Wiggins's (and Watson's) relief, this seemed to be one of those times when Holmes was too relieved to really be angry at the little urchin, and after sighing and shaking his head he smiled at the boy.

"You had us worried for a while, Wiggins," Holmes said. "No one seemed to know were—"

Holmes was interrupted for the second time in as many minutes when Mrs. Hudson came into the room saying, "...anyone seen Sockball? He ran away a couple of minutes ago an—" She stopped when Watson held the energetic kitten out to her. "Thank you, Doctor," she said, taking the kitten.

That was when she noticed Wiggins, who was doing his best to hide behind Holmes's thin legs.

"Good heavens, what is _he_ doing in here?" she shrieked. (Now might be a good time to mention that Wiggins had broken Mrs. Hudson's best teapot the last time he was in the flat, and this hadn't exactly put him on the landlady's good side.)

Holmes stepped aside (hiding Watson's revolver behind his back) and Wiggins turned a deep shade of red.

"I don't want to see you here again, young man!" she continued, waving a finger at him.

"Oi'm sorry, mu'um! Oi'll get going!"

She nodded, and then glanced at the open window. "And close that window, it looks like it's going to rain!" With that, she stalked out of the room.

"I suppose it wouldn't do any good to tell her that this is _London_, and it _always_ looks like it will rain?" Holmes asked Wiggins as the entered the sitting room.

Wiggins sniggered. "Oi doubt it, Mr. Holmes. Well, Oi'd better be off!" He headed toward the stairs.

"Wiggins," said Holmes. The boy stopped and turned around. "Make sure you tell the others that you are all right. They were very worried about you."

Wiggins nodded gravely. "Oi'll tell 'em roight away!" With that, he descended the seventeen steps at a run, and disappeared into the street.

* * *

**A/N: Hey, I think this is my first fic with Wiggins! And Sockball returned! Hooray!**

**I apologize for my lack of skill in typing a Cockney accent. If anyone could give me a few pointers, it would be appreciated!**

**And the "this is London, and it always looks like it's going to rain" came from (I think) Worth and Choice by KCS. (I couldn't find it again when I looked, so if I'm wrong, someone PLEASE tell me!)**


	19. December 19

**December 19: "Wiggins steals a Christmas present for Holmes in his first year of employment." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

**A/N: Mrs. Dudley is from KCS's Worth and Choice.**

* * *

**Christmas of 1880 **

"Mr. Olmes!" shouted Wiggins as he bounded into Holmes's rooms in Montague street late one Christmas Eve.

"Shh!" exclaimed Holmes, jumping up from his chair and meeting the boy at the door. "You'll wake Mrs. Dudley, and I am sure you remember what happened the _last_ time."

Wiggins nodded gravely, but his face lit up as he began to speak again. "Oi brought you a Christmas present!" he declared proudly, and fished a small package out of a pocket. He held it out to the detective, who took it.

"Do you want me to open it now, or—"

"Now!" Wiggins said as cheerfully and loudly as he (safely) could. Holmes tore the brown paper, which had clearly been used before, and pulled out a small silver jack-knife.

Wiggins smiled happily. "Do you loike it?"

Truth be told, Holmes _did_ like it, but thought it unlikely that the street urchin had gotten it using conventional (and legal) means.

"Wiggins, did you steal this?" he asked sternly.

Wiggins looked down at his shoes sheepishly. "It was lyin' around, loike somebody lost it, and it was right where anybody pinch it, so Oi jus' took it before anybody else could..." He trailed off.

Holmes sighed. "I am sure that you had no malicious intentions, but in the future, please avoid helping people lose their possessions." Wiggins nodded. "Do you know if you can find the man this knife belongs to again?"

"Oi don't even know wot the bloke looks loike," said Wiggins apologetically. He glanced toward the door and shifted his feet. "Well, Oi'd better be off."

Holmes nodded and the boy headed toward the door. "Wiggins," he said as the boy was about to cross the threshold.

"Yes, Mr. Olmes?" asked the boy, turning back.

"Merry Christmas." said Holmes, his voice more kind than usual.

Wiggins grinned from ear to ear. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Olmes!" he answered merrily.

* * *

**January of 1881**

"I say," said Watson, examining the knife Holmes had used to transfix his unanswered letters to the mantlepiece. "This looks remarkably like the knife I lost back in December while I was staying at that hotel in the Strand!"

* * *

**A/N: *Giggles* Huge thanks to my mom for the idea! :)**


	20. December 20

**December 20: "Did Holmes ever believe in Father Christmas?" (from Alice Wright)**

* * *

On one frosty December evening, Holmes and Watson were strolling through the busy streets of London (at Watson's request). Holmes was deducing obscure—and sometimes embarrassing—things about the people they passed while Watson gazed at the buildings and streets now covered in the newly fallen snow.

They passed a mother who was attempting to keep track of six or seven hyper children, all of whom were chattering excitedly about the coming of Father Christmas.

As they passed, Holmes snorted and muttered something Watson didn't quite catch about children being gullible.

Watson raised his eyebrows. "What? You mean _you_ never believed in Father Christmas?" asked Watson, only half joking.

"No," said Holmes firmly, taking a long step over an icy patch Watson had to walk around.

Watson's eyebrows crept higher up his forehead. "Somehow I can't believe that. Every child believes in Father Christmas at some point!"

"Well, I _didn't_, Watson," he answered impatiently. "Is that so hard to believe?

"Yes," he answered simply as they swerved around a tightly knit group of young women, all giggling and whispering amongst themselves.

Holmes made a noise of exasperation and rolled his eyes.

"Let me guess," said Watson. "Did Mycroft spoil it for you?"

"I say, Watson," said Holmes. "Did you see that man with the beard and the tattered hat? I wonder if his wife knows that he lost his job yesterday."

"Not the subtlest change of subject," said Watson, carefully avoiding a particularly snowy spot on the pavement.

"No," agreed Holmes.

"I'm right, aren't I?" asked Watson.

"Watson, _please_ just drop the subject," said Holmes exasperatedly.

Watson watched his friend's face expectantly.

Holmes sighed. "All right, Watson," he said reluctantly. "Yes, Mycroft _might_ have had something to do with it."

Watson nodded smugly. "I thought so."

* * *

**A/N: Aww, Mycroft! What were you thinking?**


	21. December 21

**December 21: "Advent Calendar" (from Werepanther33)**

**A/N: A tribute to my personal favorite advent calendar, very short, and completely CRACKFIC.**

_**You have been warned!**_

* * *

"I say, Watson," said Holmes as they sat in front of Watson's computer watching the video podcast Grant's Advent Calendar. "That is one of the most _ridiculous_ things I've ever heard of! A wooden box with a door for each day of December until the 25th? Why on earth would someone want to do _that_?"

Watson sighed. "To count down the days until Christmas, and—"

"My word!" exclaimed Holmes. "That is one of the most outlandish hair styles I that have ever encountered!"

"I am not sure what he is trying to prove with his hair," admitted Watson. "But before you so _rudely_ interrupted me, I was about to say: believe it or not, some people actually _enjoy_ Christmas traditions, unlike a _particularly_ Scrooge-like detective of my acquaintance."

"Not nice of you to talk about Inspector Lestrade like that," said Holmes in a dead-pan voice.

Watson couldn't help but crack a grin. "You are insufferable."

Holmes smiled as he leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. "I do my best."

* * *

**A/N: I ****_told_**** you it was short! I might have been able to make this longer, but my muse has gone into visual art mode, which is why I've been uploading things like a maniac on deviantART lately (if anyone here has been on my profile over there).**

**And I recommend Grant's Advent Calendar (to anyone who has a heart), and I especially recommend Day 9 of this year. *Holds up two thumbs***

**The podcast is on iTunes or here: www . throwingtoasters advent /**


	22. December 22

**December 22: "Holmes explains to Watson, in public, why Santa Claus cannot possibly exist" (from Werepanther33)**

**A/N: Slightly tweaked sequel to my fic on the 20th**

* * *

"But children are so gullible!" Holmes insisted loudly. "There is no possible way that this 'Santa Claus' could possibly exist! The whole idea of a man being able to deliver gifts to every single house in the world in a single night is preposterous!"

"Shh, Holmes," said Watson. "There are children about!" He nodded his head in the direction of a group of three or four of them.

Holmes continued, oblivious to his friend's protest. "And this man rides in a sleigh, pulled by reindeer—_magical flying_ reindeer, no less—to deliver toys to all of the _good_ little children in the world!"

"Holmes," said Watson in a warning tone.

"What?" asked Holmes in a slightly irritated tone.

"Just because Mycroft spoiled _your_ belief in Santa Claus, doesn't mean you have to ruin it for any helpless child who overhears you!" Watson remonstrated.

"All right, all right," said Holmes with a gesture of surrender as they turned the corner and started down Baker Street. They were silent for a moment, and then a gust of icy wind hit them with tremendous force.

"Brrr!" exclaimed Watson. "I hope Mrs. Hudson made something warm for dinner! My hands are numb!"

"So do I," said Holmes. "These sub-arctic temperatures are becoming unbearable!"

* * *

**A/N: I think she made them some nice, warm soup.**


	23. December 23

**December 23: "Vatican cameos" (from MadameGiry25)**

**A/N: I ****_LOVE_**** that scene on Sherlock!**

* * *

It was early in the evening near the end of December when Sherlock Holmes and his biographer finished their dinner and sat down by the fire in their sitting room. Suddenly, Watson gave such a powerful sneeze that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the flat.

"_ACHOO!_"

Holmes was startled out of his reverie by the explosion, and an expression of acute irritation crossed his face, but it was soon followed by a slightly amused smile.

"I _told _you that you should have taken a cab instead of walking the entire way back," he said. "If you keep sneezing like that, you probably shouldn't go out for a while."

"May I remind you who is the resident physician in this flat?" asked Watson in a congested voice.

Holmes chuckled.

"I feel terrible," said Watson miserably as he slumped down in his chair. "And I've run out of reading material."

Holmes thought for a moment. "Have I ever told you about that case involving those Vatican cameos?"

Watson sat up a little straighter. "No, I don't believe you have."

"Well," Holmes began, "It was in the late summer of 1889, when I was consulted by none other than..."

* * *

**A/N: I have no idea when I will be able to post (or ****_write_****, for that matter) the fics for the next few days, but in the meanwhile, ****a very merry Christmas**** to everyone who reads this, and especially anyone who reviewed, faved, or followed. :)**


	24. December 24

**December 24: "Ten Word Challenge: Threat, Boredom, Wild, Test, Foreseen, Oblivion, Jealous, Cheating, Isolation, Hidden" (from Lemon Zinger)**

**A/N: Warning for a slightly-more-depressing-than-necessary-considering-what-day-it-is ending. (Wow, that's a lot of hyphens.)**

**Takes place after Holmes's Hiatus.**

* * *

"Holmes, what is going on down here?" asked Watson as he descended the stairs outside his bedroom upon the noticing foul stench coming from the sitting room. It was around two thirty in the afternoon, and Holmes, who appeared to have been working on some chemistry experiment, was surrounded by a small cloud of smog, which was quickly spreading throughout the room.

"Chemistry experiment," said Holmes simply as he stood up, coughing as he waved the reeking fumes away from his face. "I didn't have anything to do today, so I decided to **isolate** an element in a chemical compound I had. The consequences of the experiment were **unforeseen**; I had not expected the resulting mixture to be so..."

"Malodorous?" suggested Watson exasperatedly. "Holmes, if every chemical **test** you perform when you are **bored** is going to either set something on fire or become a **threat** to someone's health, then you need to find a new hobby!" Then he added as an afterthought, "We should open a window." As he did so, Holmes put his chemistry equipment back into its proper place. Or at least _a_ place.

About an hour later, the smog had dispersed enough to allow them to receive the client who had come to consult Holmes.

Their client was a short, balding, middle-aged man wearing worn clothes and a hat that had obviously seen better days. His eyes were **wild** with fear, and he was breathing quickly—almost hyperventilating—as though he had run a lot farther or faster than he was accustomed to.

"Mr. Holmes," he wheezed, looking from Holmes to Watson, and obviously trying to determine which was the man he had come to consult.

"I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Holmes. "And you are..."

"Phillip Greenley," said the man, still trying to regain his breath. "Mr. Holmes, you must help me! I am being pursued by a madman who believes that I have harmed his wife, but I swear on my life that I never laid a hand on the poor girl!"

"The facts, please," said Holmes ushering his client to the settee before seating himself in the chair next to Watson's. "And tell us your entire story from the beginning." He leaned back in his chair with his eyes half closed and his hands folded in his lap, as he often did when he was listening to a client's story. Mr. Greenley was not used to this odd behavior, and looked confused for a moment, until Watson, who had taken out a journal to take notes, gave him a nod to indicate that he should start to tell them what had driven him to seek their aid.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he began. "I'm a widower, my wife died a little over four years ago, and I live by myself in a small flat not far from here. Last night—probably around eight—I heard some shouting from the flat below mine. I knew that the man living there was married, and known to be an awful drinker. It happens that last night, he had drunk himself into **oblivion**, so when I went down there to check on his wife—she was a friend of my late sister, you see, so I knew her from—"

"_Only_ the facts, please," said Holmes impatiently.

Greenley looked taken aback for a moment before continuing. "I knocked on the door, and no one answered, so I opened it a little bit, and saw him hitting the poor girl, so I ran in and helped her fight him off. He's a very... _large_ man, Mr. Holmes. Probably about as tall as you, and three times as wide, and that's all muscle. I don't know what his trade is, but I hear he is involved in more illegal activities than is decent. What Cecelia—that's his wife's name; his name is Smith, James Smith. What Cecelia sees in him, heaven only know—"

Holmes grunted impatiently, and Watson gave him a disapproving glance. Greenley glanced uncertainly from one to the other of them, and then proceeded with his narrative.

"We managed to get him to the other side of the flat, and he seemed to be cooling off. He was in some sort of stupor, just muttering to himself, not much else, and I was about to ask Cecelia if she wanted to spend the night in my flat, when he suddenly launched himself at us! I guess he had a knife **hidden** somewhere on him, because there was one in his hand, and I jumped in front of Cecelia, and he stabbed me in the arm." He pulled his sleeve back, and showed them the bandaging around his forearm near the elbow.

Watson muttered something about the bandaging not being thick enough.

"Not now, Watson," said Holmes with hint of fond exasperation in his voice.

"I think I fainted, because everything after that is fairly hazy..." He trailed off, and thought for a moment before continuing. "When I came to, Cecelia was shaking me, and Smith was gone. She said she had fainted as well, and didn't know where he went. Her leg was bleeding, not too badly, but enough that we decided to find a doctor. To make a long story short, we found a doctor, notified the police, and then I let her spend the night in my flat, in case her husband came back.

"This morning, we went back down to her flat and attempted to repair a little of the damage done. We hadn't been there long, when he came back. Smith was more sober then than he was last night, but he was still inebriated enough that he wasn't walking—or _thinking_—straight. He stumbled in the door, and demanded to know what I was doing there, and I told him that I was helping his wife clean up the mess, but either he didn't hear me or chose not to listen, because the next thing I knew, he was on top of me and trying to strangle me!

"That would have been the end of me, if Mr. Johnston, the landlord, hadn't heard the commotion and come in and pried him off of me. All that time, Smith was blathering on about his wife **cheating** on him, and me being **jealous** of her or hurting her as soon as his back was turned... I didn't hear half of what he said. Then the next thing we knew, he had pulled out a revolver, and had shot Mr. Johnston in the arm!

"We got a doctor for Mr. Johnston, and we called in the police. This time, they arrested Smith, but he escaped somehow—I wasn't near enough to see how—and off he went down the street. The police have been searching for him all afternoon, but none of them saw a trace of him, though they are sure they will have him by tomorrow morning. But just now, as I was walking down the street, I saw him not far behind me. I don't think he saw me, but I wasn't about to take a chance, so I came straight to you!"

Telling his story seemed to have had a soothing effect: his condition had improved considerably since his arrival.

"I do not quite follow you, Mr. Greenley," said Holmes. "If the police have this under control, then why come to me at all?"

The man looked baffled by the question, and proceeded to open and close his mouth a couple of times before answering. "Well, I don't rightly know, Mr. Holmes. I had heard of you, and knew your residence was not far from here... so I came."

Holmes gave a slow nod. "So there is nothing you wish me to investigate further?"

Greenley thought for a moment. "Well, there is the man's illegal dealings. I don't suppose they have any thing to do with his drinking or his wife, but I've heard from several reliable sources that he has a bit of a shady reputation, something to do with the buying and selling of drugs and poisons. They say he had a brother who died recently that was an expert in poisons, especially the more tropical ones. Oh, what was his name?" He bit his lower lip. "_Culverton_, I believe it was. Yes, I—"

He stopped when he saw the effect his pronouncement had had on the two other men in the room. Holmes's eyes had flown open, and he jerked upright into a rigid position on the edge of his seat with his jaw clenched almost as tightly as his hands were on the arms of his chair. Watson's jaw as well as his his notebook had dropped, the latter hitting the floor (though the former looked dangerously close to doing so). His eyes were wide with blank shock as well as an almost haunted look.

"The name means something to you then?" asked their client cautiously.

"A good deal," murmured Watson darkly as he picked up his notebook, and Holmes gave him a concerned glance.

"Yes, we have encountered the late Culverton Smith," said Holmes. "But that is of little importance to the situation at hand, which I intend to look into as soon as possible."

* * *

**A/N: My goodness, that was a rather horrible thing to write on Christmas Eve! *Hangs head in shame* At least it was quite a bit longer than the one's I've written in the last couple of days.**

**I certainly hope you all had a wonderful (and ****_white!_****) Christmas! :)**


	25. December 25

**December 25: "Christmas Dinner at 221B" (from ImaLateBloomer)**

* * *

"My word, Mrs. Hudson!" said Holmes, leaning back in his chair as the landlady traded their empty dinner dishes with the pudding she had prepared for them. "I haven't had a meal this good since..." He thought for a moment.

"Last Christmas?" supplied Watson.

"Actually, I was thinking of Easter, but that definitely could be argued."

"Either way," said Watson, turning to face the long-suffering woman, "it was an _excellent _meal."

She only smiled modestly. "I am just glad Mr. Holmes is eating today." She cast a stern look at Holmes, who suddenly found a very interesting loose thread in the carpet to study for a moment before meeting her gaze.

"All right, Mrs. Hudson, give me a break!" he said, his tone closer to pleading than he was accustomed to. "It's Christmas, remember?"

She smiled indulgently at both of them, before leaving the room with the dishes. Several minutes and a large amount of pudding later, she was back for the dessert dishes as well.

The landlady apparently didn't miss Holmes's momentary glance at his violin, because on her way out of the room she said, "Why don't you play something in the spirit of the season for the good Doctor. I think he would like that."

Holmes turned to look at his Boswell, whose eyes were gleaming hopefully, and sighed. He never _had_ been able to refuse that particular look.

He went over to his desk, where he had left his Stradivarius after his improvisations of the previous day. Picking up the violin, he played a beautiful rendition of "Silent Night", which was applauded by both a beaming Watson and Mrs. Hudson (who seemed to have come straight back up from the kitchen after depositing their dishes).

That night, at least, all was well in 221B Baker Street.

* * *

**A/N: MERRY (belated) CHRISTMAS, EVERYBODY!**


	26. December 26

**December 26: "Must include either Holmes, Watson or both, riding reindeer back!" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

**A/N: I didn't really describe their surroundings very well, so just picture them as being on the edge of a small village.**

* * *

"Watson, I will never understand how you talked me into taking up a case in _Canada_, of all places!" Holmes exclaimed, and shivered. They were walking down the short path between the hotel and the house where a man Holmes was sure was blackmailing his cousin and her fiancé.

"Canada is a nice place, Holmes!" Watson protested.

"Deucedly c-cold, though!" He shivered again, and rubbed his hands together.

Watson snorted. "If you didn't have the build of a telegraph post, you _might_ be a little warmer."

Holmes ignored the friendly gibe. "Watson, is that our man?" he asked, nodding almost imperceptibly in the direction of a man about fifty yards away, who had come out of the house they believed to be occupied by the blackmailer.

Watson squinted. "I can't be sure, but his hair is definitely blond, and he's limping slightly. If it's not Roberts, than it is someone who looks very like him." They quickened their pace. "What are we going to do, Holmes?"

"We should follow him," said Holmes.

Watson nodded. "What will we do when we find out where he is going?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something," said Holmes absently, obviously not processing a word Watson had just said.

A minute or two later, Roberts glanced over his shoulder and saw them following him. He immediately quickened his pace, and disappeared behind an old barn not far ahead. Holmes began sprinting after the man with Watson not far behind. When they reached the other side of the barn, they saw the disappearing form of the blackmailer riding reindeer-back as he rode off in the direction of the woods.

"We have to head him off, Watson!" said Holmes. "How will we catch up to him?!"

"Holmes," said Watson, who had mounted one of the three reindeer standing by the barn. Holmes glanced over at his friend.

"Oh. Right."

Watson grinned down at his friend as he remembered their argument of the previous day.

_"No, Watson! I am _NOT_ riding a reindeer, and that is final!" _

Holmes sighed as he mounted the reindeer next to the one Watson was on. "Well, Watson, you seem to have won _that_ argument."

With that, they set off after the blackmailer.

* * *

**A/N: There, Holmes! I gave you a nice, epic chase! Well maybe not exactly ****_epic_****...**

**Again, thanks to everybody who R&R'ed! Thanks to you kind souls, I now have over 100 reviews! :)**


	27. December 27

**December 27: "Mrs. Hudson enlists the doctor and the detective to help her pass out cookies to orphans." (from SheWhoScrawls)**

* * *

"Doctor," said Mrs. Hudson to Watson one December afternoon after Holmes had left on a walk, "I need your and Mr. Holmes's help with something this evening."

"Some sort of charity event?" Watson guessed.

"Yes," said Mrs. Hudson. "We'll be handing out cookies to the children at the orphanage, and we could use a couple of extra hands."

"Of course I'll help," said Watson, "but you know we won't be able to convince Holmes to help us."

"Oh, I think we'll be able to," said Mrs. Hudson confidently.

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Do you intend to blackmail him then?"

"No," said Mrs. Hudson. "We will just have to take advantage of the element of surprise."

* * *

Three hours later, Holmes and Watson were in a cab headed toward the orphanage; Mrs. Hudson had left the flat half an hour before.

"Where did you say we were going?" asked Holmes.

"Hmm?" asked Watson.

"Watson, I did not stutter and you are not hard of hearing. Now please answer the question."

"Oh, we're just helping out a good friend of Mrs. Hudson's."

"What exactly are we helping this friend of Mrs. Hudson's with?" asked Holmes.

"Look, we're almost there!" said Watson. A moment later, the cab stopped and after Watson paid the fare, they got out. Watson grabbed the detective's arm, and proceeded to half-lead, half-drag him to the front door and shoved him inside.

There were four women in the room, all somewhere between being middle-aged and old, who were holding baskets and talking animatedly together near the centre of the room. Mrs. Hudson caught sight of them, and she immediately hurried over to them. "Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, how good of you to come!" she exclaimed.

"Where are we? What is going on?" Holmes asked no one in particular. No one answered him.

A woman who seemed to be overseeing the event hurried over to them, and shoved a basket toward each of them.

"Thank you both so much for coming! Now remember, they only get _one_ each,"

"One? One what?

"Why cookies, of course." She gave him a slightly confused look. "You did know that, right?"

Mrs. Hudson cut him off before he could answer. "Of course he did, Helen!" Helen nodded and walked away.

Holmes turned to Watson, who was doing his best not to smile at his friend's expense.

"What in blazes is going on here?" Holmes whispered exasperatedly.

"We're handing out cookies to orphans," answered Watson quietly, waiting for his friend's reaction.

Holmes gaped for a moment, then scowled indignantly. "I never agreed to this!"

"No," Watson agreed, "but you're doing it anyway."

Just as he finished his sentence, a large group of children rushed down the stairs at the other end of the room and toward them.

Holmes sighed resignedly as the group poured toward them. "Well, I suppose there are worse ways to spend an evening."

* * *

**A/N: How very kind of you to volunteer, Holmes!**


	28. December 28

**December 28: "Rugby match" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

**A/N: Sequel to yesterday's...**

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

Watson briefly wondered if he had enough energy to calm down a hysterical client, if that was the person who was at the door, before hastily preventing Holmes from shouting at their long-suffering landlady.

"For goodness' sake, Holmes!" he said. "Give the poor woman a rest; she has an awful cold, remember? _I_ shall answer the door." Watson quickly followed through with his statement, descending the stairs and opening the door. The man on the other side was blown rather than walked in, along with what seemed to be half of the snow on the block.

The visitor, a clean-shaven man about two inches taller than Watson with dark hair and lively blue eyes, stood panting for a moment, after which he sighed and growled, "If I'd known the weather would get _this_ bad I would have waited till tomorrow!"

There was something vaguely familiar about the face and the slightly Scottish accent of the voice, but Watson couldn't quite place it.

"Have you come to consult Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" asked Watson.

The man shook his head and brushed some of the snow off of his shoulders. "No, I'm here to deliver something to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson." He smiled at the doctor. "Remember me, Watson?"

Suddenly, Watson's eyes lit up with recognition. "Is that you, Burgess?"

Burgess laughed. "I wondered if you'd recognize me! We haven't seen one another in... good heavens, has it really been seventeen years now?"

"It has," said Watson almost disbelievingly, now grinning as well. "Come up to the sitting room! It's far too chilly down here to carry on a conversation." As they started up the stairs, Watson asked, "What have you been doing with yourself, after you broke your nose for the _fifth _time in that last match?"

Burgess reached up and rubbed his nose absently. "It never has been quite the same," he admitted cheerfully. "I inherited that orphanage after my uncle died eight years ago. Before that, I worked on the railroad in Aberdeen." They reached the top of the stairs, and Holmes looked up from the morning paper he had been cutting apart.

Watson introduced them to each other. "Holmes, this is my old rugby teammate, Peter Burgess; Burgess, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes," said Burgess cordially. "I learned about you from Watson's stories in the Strand."

Holmes chose to (for once) avoid poking fun at Watson's writings, and instead asked, "What brings you here on a day like this?" He gestured toward the window, outside of which the weather was becoming steadily worse.

"The staff at the orphanage where you two so kindly volunteered yesterday wanted to thank you both for your help," he said. "I recognized Watson's name, so I decided to bring them over myself." He pulled a brown paper bag out of one of the pockets in his overcoat. "There are two cookies in there, one for each of you." Then he added, almost as an explanation: "There were a few left over at the end."

"Thank you very much, Burgess," said Watson, taking the bag from him and setting it on the table.

Burgess smiled. "I'll pass your thanks on to the ladies who baked the cookies." He paused for a moment. "We'll have to have a good chat sometime, maybe over lunch somewhere. I'll come back when the weather's a bit more..."

"Agreeable?" suggested Watson.

Burgess glanced out the window. "Well, I had best get going before the storm gets any worse." Watson took a step toward the doorway, but Burgess stopped him. "I'll find my own way out; you just stay warm up here."

Watson nodded. "Be sure to watch out for that icy patch on the right side, just outside the door."

"I will," he said, already on his way toward the stairs. They heard him descend them, and then the shrieking of the wind before the door closed behind him.

"Peter Burgess, the rugby champion, running an orphanage?" Watson muttered to himself. "Who would have guessed..." he trailed off and shook his head.

* * *

**A/N: COLOSSAL thanks to my mom for the idea! **

**I kind of needed it, since I don't know very much about rugby, so I wouldn't be able to write about an actual match.**


	29. December 29

**December 29: "Sherlock Holmes receives a beehive for Christmas." (from Poseidon God of the Seas)**

**A/N: Takes place on December 26th of one of the years after Holmes's retirement; Watson is living on Queen Anne Street.**

* * *

Watson woke with a start to the sound of the telephone ringing. Apparently he had fallen asleep at his desk, while trying to catch up on some of the work he had left behind when he had visited Holmes's cottage on Christmas.

After wondering briefly if it was a patient calling at this ridiculous hour (nearly half past five in the morning), Watson groaned and picked up the receiver. His voice was far thicker than he would have liked.

"Hallo?"

"Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, with far too much enthusiasm for that hour of the morning. "You will never believe what Stackhurst gave me!"

Watson closed his eyes for a moment and tried to fight off his exhaustion and now-worse headache.

"What did he give you?" He tried — and partially succeeded — sounding more curious than irritated.

"A beehive!" Holmes nearly shouted, and Watson leaned away from the 'phone.

"Wonderful!" Watson put as much (artificial) cheerfulness in his voice as he could, and turned his head to yawn.

"I called too early, didn't I," said Holmes a little guiltily.

"It's possible," said Watson.

"You are far more sarcastic when you're tired, aren't you?"

"Stunning deduction, Holmes."

"Point proven. Did you fall asleep at your desk again?"

Watson paused a moment. "Yes," he finally admitted.

"You need more rest, old chap," said Holmes.

"Holmes, you aren't exactly helping achieve that end."

"Well..." Watson could almost see Holmes squirming

"I really am happy for you, Holmes," said Watson honestly.

"It is an excellent hive!"

"Are you going to put it in your bedroom?"

"The way you talk, you would think I name them all and tuck them in at night!" said Holmes in his best scandalized voice.

"You don't?!"

"Watson, you are insufferable."

Watson valiantly fought back another yawn.

"Go to bed, Watson."

"Thank you, Holmes."

* * *

**A/N: My dad wanted me to work in a beehive hairdo somewhere. Sorry to disappoint!**


	30. December 30

**December 30: "Obsession" (from embracetheweird)**

* * *

"Holmes, you have been reading a lot lately," Watson observed as he sat down to breakfast. Holmes was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his chair with a book on each knee and several others on the floor around him. "You're not on a case, so what is it you are so intent on researching? Is it something criminal? Or another ancient language?"

"Neither. They are on apiculture." Holmes turned a page in the book on his right knee.

"_Apiculture_?" said Watson incredulously.

"Yes, I'm thinking of retiring and taking up beekeeping." His tone was serious, but Watson was sure his friend was teasing him.

"You're not serious," said Watson, now having completely forgotten about his breakfast.

"I am perfectly serious," said Holmes, looking up from his book at Watson.

"Well, I thought you would want to retire someday, but... _bees_?"

Holmes shrugged. "They are very interesting little creatures, Watson. Have you ever wondered about the way the queen bee is separated from the other bees?

"No, I can't say that I have. But all of those hours you have spent reading during the past week... that was all about _bees_?"

"Yes," said Holmes simply, returning to his book.

* * *

**A/N: Yay, bees!**

**Sorry for the abrupt ending, but I couldn't really think of anything to add to it.**


	31. December 31

**December 31: "The clock is ticking… will Holmes and Watson escape in time to ****celebrate the New Year?!" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

Holmes and Watson awoke tied to wooden chairs placed back to back, behind a false wall in a small closet, inside an abandoned house on the edge of London. The criminals they had been chasing, Jack Stockholm and Henry Brown, managed to sneak up on them and knock them out with chloroform before they knew what had hit them.

"Holmes, can you reach the left pocket of my overcoat? I have a small pocketknife in there."

"I—I think I can... Hang on, I've almost got it... Blast!" The small knife clattered to the floor.

"Great, now what do we do!?" Watson asked through gritted teeth.

"I don't know!" Then Holmes added in a mutter, "Scotland Yard will never let me live _this_ down."

Watson sighed. "Well, this isn't the best New Year's Eve I've ever had."

"I've had worse," said Holmes, attempting to reach an itch on his ankle with the opposite foot.

Watson quirked an eyebrow. "Really?"

Holmes gave a wry smile. "I was snowed in at a New Year's party at the house of a friend of Mycroft's." He shuddered. "I was stuck there for _four days_!"

Watson snorted. "I bet you hated that."

"Yes," said Holmes. "There were a couple of the most _horrible_ women there, Watson. They kept following me around... It was dreadful!" Holmes paused and rubbed his ankle on the chair leg.

Watson laughed.

"The company this year is _much_ better," Holmes added quietly.

Watson opened his mouth, but couldn't quite find the right words, so he closed it again. A clock somewhere in the distance struck midnight, and a smile crept onto his face. "Happy New Year, Holmes."

"Don't expect me to sing 'Auld Lang Syne,' with you Watson, but a Happy New Year to you t— What is _that_?!" A small orange kitten had leapt into his lap, curled itself into a ball, and began purring softly. Now more than ever, Holmes wished he had use of his hands. Biting back a pitiful-sounding "get it off me, Watson," he attempted to shake it off of him.

"What is what?" Watson tried in vain to look over his shoulder at his friend (not that it would do any good, as it was pitch black anyway). "Holmes, what are you doing? You'll knock us both over!"

Holmes gave up trying to shake off the kitten, and instead leaned as far away from it as he could. "Some cat jumped on me, and—"

Suddenly, they heard two or three young voices from the other side of the wall talking excitedly together. Neither Holmes nor Watson could make out any of the words in the Cockney babble.

"Who's there?" shouted Watson, who was facing the wall. The voices ceased. Then—

"Cor! That yew, Dr. Watson?" shouted the unmistakable voice of Wiggins, chief of the ragtag group of boys known as the Baker Street Irregulars.

"Yes!" Watson shouted back. "Can you get us out of here?"

"Oi think so!" Wiggins shouted back. "Your landlady's cat found a break in it, an' Oi think we can open it, or at least get through!" His words were followed by a scraping and grinding sound, and soon the wall had swung back, revealing three dirty, little Irregulars, all coughing from the dust.

"How did you find us?" Holmes asked incredulously, after his and Watson's ropes had been removed and they were trying to regain feeling in various limbs.

Wiggins shrugged. "It was nuthin'. Ted here—" he nodded toward the shorter of the two other boys "—wanted to practice some spyin', an' Oliver—" he pointed a thumb at the other urchin "—an' Oi didn't have anythin' else to do, so..." Wiggins trailed off sheepishly, "we decided to follow yew two. We lost track of yew, but then we found yew again, an' here we are!" He concluded his speech with a triumphant smile.

"I'm glad you found us," said Watson, patting Wiggins on the head.

Holmes groaned softly. "We had better get back to Baker Street, Watson. Mrs. Hudson is going to be positively hysterical."

"Where have you two been? You said you'd be back by ten! I was so worried about you! Dr. Watson, how is that leg of yours? You're limping again! How did Sockball end up with you two? My, that was a terrible sneeze, Mr. Holmes! If you aren't careful— Here, give me that coat! That's better. If you aren't careful, you'll end up with an awful cold..." She continued her fussing all the way up the stairs. "...You two had better have something to eat! Especially you, Mr. Holmes! You didn't have any lunch did you?" She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

Holmes and Watson, now sitting in their respective chairs by the fire, looked at eachother.

Watson raised his eyebrows. "All things considered, that was not as bad as I thought it would be."

Holmes grinned. "No, we've certainly seen worse. Remember that time I came back to the flat in the middle of the night and passed out on the front carpet as soon as I had the door open?"

Watson chuckled. "How could I ever forget it? Mrs. Hudson screeched so loudly that I don't think anyone within several miles has ever completely regained their hearing."

Had anyone but their long-suffering landlady seen the two of them laughing like that, Sherlock Holmes and his biographer would have instantly been carted off to the nearest asylum. As it was, Mrs. Hudson only smiled and wished them both a very, very Happy New Year.

* * *

**A/N: Huge thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead, and everyone else involved with this challenge, especially anyone who reviewed! You guys are awesome!**

**A Happy New Year to you all!**

***Removes deerstalker cap and takes a bow***


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